stories and poems

Month: March 2017

I left home and said hello and goodbye.My parents sent me off to better me;I grew up like a bird found wings to fly.

New friends–now family–took me up high;they opened up my eyes at last to see.I left home and said hello and goodbye.

So many friendly souls to call out hi,make memories of truly being free.I grew up like a bird found wings to fly.

On many days, I lay under the sky;at camp, all of it seems meant to be.I left home and said hello and goodbye.

In class, I learned to ask and learn and pry,and learned not just to listen but decree.I grew up like a bird found wings to fly.

At night, I danced and sung ‘Merican Pie,the days of youth became life’s gateway key.I left home and said hello and goodbye.I grew up like a bird found wings to fly.*Writer’s note: This poem is inspired/dedicated to CTY, a summer camp organization that I’ve attended many times. Each time has been a completely new and irreplaceable experience, so here’s my way of reminiscing those weeks. (:

The rain falls thickly through the windowpane,the forecast true to word, we rushed outside;We start to sink knee deep in puddles’ chains.

We tried to wait it out in hopeless vain,but young and free, it was too long to bide. The rain falls thickly through the windowpane.

A muttered curse drops down the rusty drainand drowns, one voice against the rising tide.We start to sink knee deep in puddles’ chains.

We tried to brace the storm with cape and cane,but Nature’s will is old and firm and wide.The rain falls thickly through the windowpane.Cold children with red noses and cheeks stained,sit still in silence, watching the riptide.We start to sink knee deep in puddles’ chains.

Drop, drop goes raindrops, driving us insane;off one beat and our lives are turned like tides.The rain falls thickly through the windowpane.We start to sink knee deep in puddles’ chains.

We stood in the wind and watched the waves,
crashing below in tune with the clouds.
I wonder if under the water’s green,
a school of silver fish flashes in the sun,
and a lucky snorkeller found a sand-dollar.
We wondered these things on the mountain.

Everything moved slowly on the mountain,
while the tides kept crashing below into waves,
and the snorkeller ran up the shore with his sand-dollar.
Up above, all there is and ever will be is clouds
and the glowing face of the sun,
the rays giving life to the trees’ green.

We felt so small compared to the green,
tiny beings in the world of the mountain.
All we felt was the glare of the sun
while the fish glimmered and shone under the waves.
We kept walking up the path to the clouds,
while the man showed off his sand-dollar.

Why was it so important to him: the sand-dollar?
Maybe his life had been gray now turned green;
the idea of luck drew the sun out of the clouds.
We wished him a good life up on the mountain,
and the moon seemed to agree by lifting the waves,
turning day into night and gone is the sun.

We hiked down the red dirt in the fading sun,
hoping secretly to find our own sand-dollar
down at the shore in the waves.
We brushed past flowers and leaves green,
green brushes like a goodbye from the mountain.
Watching from above were the clouds.

We laid back and watched the clouds,
the shapes now dark without the sun.
I laid back facing the mountain,
its round hills like a sand-dollar.
The birds flew over the green,
while always moving, were the waves.

We watched the clouds and swam through the waves.
On the mountain we found our sand-dollar;
fading was the sun over the green.

As the sun fell, we headed to the lightthat is Downtown. We see the city’s strings,the cars lined up on the road,little ants under the Queen, the tower.Red are the ants’ eyes, cooled by the tower’s blues,while the whites and blacks are brought by the people.

It’s almost six o’clock, and the restaurants fill with people.All the young couples laughing under small light,while soft jazz plays its blues.A man leans over to fix a woman’s dress strings,while she gazes out at the tower.A plastic bag floats onto the road.

The white walking-man let us cross the road,stepping out into the milling people,taking in the buildings that towerover us in the growing light.One by one, the eyes of the building blink on and the stringsof the lamps are cast in black-blues.

We enter the Hall, and the sound of brassy bluesawakens our minds and leaves our bodies on the road.The trumpets and cymbals sing with the strings,while the man with the baton holds the peoplein awe, making them think they have found the light,that they are soaring above the heavenly tower.

Some have tried to paint this towerin the next building over, with vibrant blueson a canvas that hangs in the lightof the Modern Art display. The roadcrunches and screeches, and the peoplefile in and out–but never once have moved the canvas strings.

We climb to the top of the building, with the stringsof my hair blown back and the tower,above us, watching over the people. Memories drifted by in the wind and bittersweet bluessunk into my heart and down to the road,a city sprawled below and aglow with light.

The bow leaves the strings and the sun brings back light.Warm are the people, relieved of their blues.We look up one last time at the tower, and drive down the road.